The Persistence of Memory
His love, outside of time, beyond the illusion of forever, was immemorial as it was eternal.
Long before the human genome had been discovered and deciphered in cold, impersonal laboratories, his epigenetics had been warmly at work, laying down inheritable sentiments for his progeny. He built up a latticework of devotion to her where natural selection had no relevance.
His love would persist through the ages. It always had, hadn't it? Some certainties persist beyond memory.
His was just a trick with amino acids, bonding junk DNA to the otherwise silent portions of his genetic helices. But there she straddled, fresh and alive; lovely and kind; and generously giving.
And inheritable.
Alas, he never taught her how to do likewise. He couldn't. It was a process so private and inherently esoteric that he didn't quite understand it himself. How could he translate such mindful machinations into words of instruction? He might just as easily deconstruct love, grief, or loneliness, all of which ensued upon her death.
But love and grief and loneliness are constructs of a genetically derived mindfulness, apart from his epigenetic love letter, and ne'er the twain would meet: his completeness by her was immune to the instructions of mere proteins or hormones.
Each time he visited her grave, the tighter his epigenetic bonds became. They stood out--little bombs easily packaged for sorties to his offspring to come.
Each time he visited her grave, he would sink to his knees, crying, "I love you eternally. My love is still here now, and will so remain, until it becomes the stuff of stars themselves!"
Hundreds of years later, great-great-great-grandchildren, now unrecognizable to each other on their family tree, visit her grave driven via a powerful, mysterious compulsion. Chance had summated perfectly: three strangers--two men and a boy--know they must be there but don't know why.
Prudence Planchard
My Forever Love
May 25, 1757 — September 5, 1785
The older man said, "I love you forever."
The younger man, added, "My love is still here now..."
And the boy added, in a sentiment well beyond his years, "...and will so remain until becoming the stuff of stars themselves."
They departed, but would certainly, in love, cross paths again.
Intersection
Crossroads. Intersections. At these places paths were chosen, deals were made and people passed each other for a fleeting moment.
The girl almost an adult now at the age of 17, in the black leathers approached such a crossroad that rainy night. The night was black as pitch, the clouds above obscuring the moon and stars. The girl looked a down trodden Joan Jett. Her raven colored hair was plastered together by the rain.
A shiver passed through her and she pulled her soggy biker jacket which had been a gift from her uncle around herself. That shiver didn't come from any amount of rain or the unknown that lay ahead of her. It instead came from the memory of what lay behind her.
She stood there shaking like a leaf with rain dribbling off of her. She looked absolutely pitiful. She didn't know where she was going.
What little money she had had already been exhausted three days back. Her feet ached and her body cried out in agony for nourishment it hadn't had for 48 hours.
Yes, the poor thing stood at that crossroads felling hopeless and abandoned by all, exposed to the predators both four-legged and two-legged that lurked in the shadows. She stood there looking ahead & from side to side uncertain where to go.
Was that a motor? Was that headlights. Yes. The semi came to halt on the the path to her left and she shield her puffy eyes from the headlights that illuminated her. The driver door opened and a stout man in jeans, a dark gray shirt and a baseball cap jumped down. He was in his late forties with salt and pepper already present in the well groomed beared.
She should run but she knew she'd not get very far she was about to collapse from exhaustion. "Can I offer you a lift little missy?"
She was hesitant. This was stupid. She asked, How do I know I know you're not a rapist or a serial killer?"
"You don't."
The bluntness of his answer made
her put her gaurd down just enough to climb into the passenger side of the 18 Wheeler. "Where you headed, Missy or don't you know?"
"My names Chloe and no I don't know I don't have a %÷+*ing clue."
"Tell you what. I'm making night deliveries to a distribution center for Package Express; that's my job.
I'm going to Jacobson. That's two hours away. It'll be Six AM when we arrive. I know a shelter there. I'll drop you off there."
"Whatever."
Chloe was too tired to sleep. So she just looked out the window but that was mostly just a formality. "My name's Trevor." The trucker stated.
She said nothing. All was silent except for the sound of the behemoth moving down the road and the rain hitting the vehicle. "How about some tunes?"
Again silence. Trevor didn't say anything after that for a while. Chloe noticed he occasionally frowned when looking at a picture of a woman and young girl around five maybe tapped to the dashboard of the truck.
She deduced the people had some significant meaning to her benefactor but it wasn't her business and she didn't ask. His wife and daughter, that's who they were or at least used to be. The ex lived California now, the wierdo capital of the USA. She took good care of little Chrissy and made shore to poison her mind against her father.
Trevor had been staring ahead for a century when he opened his mouth again. "I don't what you're running from, Chloe but it must pretty bad for you be soaking with rain water and accepting a ride from a stranger."
"You don't seem like a killer."
"Chloe, what does a killer seem like? Ted Bundy worked for a suicide prevention hot line! People aren't always what they seem."
"I know!"she snapped I know that dame well! I thought my mom would always have my back no matter what but she turned out to be a bitch who grounded her daughter for lying about her new husband just because the daughter didn't want a stepfather!"
Wow! He hadn't expected that. At least the poor bedraggled girl was opening up.
"What's this big lie you supposedly told?"
"That her Sir Galahad married her just to bang me. He told me on so one night when the two of us were alone and he---"
She didn't finish nor did she need to. Trevor vowed if he ever met Chloe's stepfather he'd slowly castrated with his grandpappy's rusted bayonet.
"Why not go the cops?"
"Yeah great idea. My mom totally wouldn't tell them I was lying or anything."
Trevor let the matter rest. Chloe eventually fell asleep. That was good. She woke up 25 minutes later when he stopped at a 24 hour greasepit. He returned with a brown paperbag containing two breakfast sandwiches. He was honestly surprised to find his passenger still in the truck. He was glad she hadn't vanished into the drizzle. He said grace and using a pocket knife he cut his sandwich in half and gave a portion to Chloe with her own whole sandwich.
"You need that more than I do."
She didn't protest.
Finally around six. Trevor dropped off the packages and drove Chloe to the shelter. He gave her some money. Enough for a hotel room and a change of clothes.
"You'll be in my prayers Chloe."and he drove off into the lush orange sunrise.
Crossroads. Intersections. At these places, deals are made, paths are chosen, and people pass each other for a fleeting moment, people like a lonely trucker and destitute runaway.
Fifteen seconds to violet
Victor regarded the electronic card around his neck thoughtfully, the numbers rising the tiniest fraction by the second. The bar almost looked like it wasn’t moving at all, if he didn’t look long enough.
It wouldn’t be long until his number reached critical levels, according to the radiation card, but he’s been resetting his numbers illegally for months now, so the numbers at this point hold little meaning. So far, he has felt fine. Energized, even. Every single cell in his body felt electric, and he was beginning to like the feeling.
To keep up appearances, he still wore his protective vest dutifully as he worked, making small marks in his small black notebook. It was only a formality; he has taken to committing his observations to memory. Today, the prism was changing colors again, from blue to green to red, before transforming to his favorite: a rich, deep violet. It went through this rotation every day, like clockwork, and by this point he could predict the change down to the second. He wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he had theories, oh did he have his theories.
He glanced at the second hand of his watch.
Fifteen seconds to violet. Fourteen... thirteen... twelve... eleven...
"Victor?" Natalia's voice called through the speakers, from beyond the glass partition. "What are you doing?"
Victor chewed his lower lip in annoyance. He did not have time to humor Natalia right now. He was fond of her, truly he was, but today was not the day. She had what he would describe as a "relentlessly positive" disposition. A half smile permanently fixed on her heart-shaped face, paired with a soft, lilting voice. She both fascinated and irritated him simultaneously, and today his feelings were closer to the latter.
Five...four...three...
"Have you lost your mind? You need to get out of there!" Natalia's tinny voice crinkled through the speakers. A bright white light started flashing through the room, like a strobe, signaling the emergency alarm had been triggered.
Two...
"Victor!"
One.
---
Dying took exactly forty-five seconds.
Blood was the color of freshly bloomed violets, the searing skin smelled of burnt lavender and agar.
Throughout the process Victor had seemingly random thoughts flit through his brain, with one recurring character: Natalia. She always smelled of lavender, didn't she? It was her shampoo, or that bottle she kept at her desk, was it hand cream? She had chronically dry hands, Victor suddenly remembered, from working with radium, of course. The cream helped.
He coughed up a mist of purple dust.
No, no. It was peonies. The cream's scent was peonies.
The transformation was painful. Then again, that was to be expected. That was what Victor's advisor always told him, back in the day, when he was a young doctoral student, full of hopeful idealism and shameless ambition. To truly change one must destroy the old self, the esteemed Dr. Keehma preached. One must die.
Natalia always thought that was a bit extreme. Victor didn't. It was one of their recurring arguments. It became a sort of ritual, their friendly debates, late night diatribes over boxes of old Chinese food, Natalia illustrating her points with a wave of a chopstick.
It was this particular memory that brought Victor back into the sea of violet, hazy images of spring peonies and wonton noodles at the edges of his vision, a half-smile forming on his bluish lips.
He did it. He finally did it. He was now the purest form of energy. A burning, glowing, radiating ball of light. A successful metamorphosis.
It was sad, really, that as he passed he didn't notice the small humanoid shadow clinging to the remnants of his white coat. The figure of a woman with a heart shaped face, who once smelled of peonies.
Inadequate Prep
It was to be a routine colonoscopy, but I died.
A brightly lit, red-carpeted corridor lay ahead of me. Along the way were many doors. Curious, I opened one of them to see a tableau of a moment of my life which wasn't particularly praiseworthy. I shut it.
Summoning intestinal fortitude, I tried another door--again, it wasn't pretty. I became worried, being as I was dead. Someone obviously had rolled out red carpet for me, but what was behind the doors wasn't particularly welcoming.
Finally, I opened a door to a wonderful scene from my past. I was humble, magnanimous, altruistic, and generous. I was putting myself second or third or fourth. I looked good!
This encouraged me to open more, a passing-in-review of sorts. Relieved, I found more doors opened to exemplary life-scenes than shameful ones. That's fair, isn't it? Everyone's life has good and bad.
Everyone learns along the way.
Learning--mine was validated by more good visions presenting than bad. Yes, I had learned! I still opened a few doors to stinkers, but the scale was tipping my way.
I came to the end, where, I saw in "the light," dead relatives--mother, father, others. They were smiling and welcoming, but behind them a grim man stared at me.
I pushed my way through to confront him.
"Sir?"
"Yes," he responded. "I'm here reporting to you."
"About?"
"About your soul." I swallowed hard. "You see," he continued, "not all of yourself will see Paradise. There are parts of you that will go...elsewhere."
"Elsewhere?"
"That doesn't concern your good parts. We don't take the good with the bad here. Hope that's acceptable."
Thinking here was instantaneous: I won't be separated--dissected! The bad had made me the good person I am. They're a part of me, too.
"All or none," I answered. "I must be true to myself."
"Fine," he said, with finality.
I awoke in the Recovery Room.
"I'm afraid we weren't able to complete your colonoscopy," the gastroenterologist apologized. "Too much debris--feces--on your colon walls."
My epiphany: You can't see good tissue through crap; alternatively, the good through the bad.
"Your purge failed," he went on. "I'm afraid your bowel prep was inadequate. We'll reschedule you again and this time order a 2-day prep."
Another prep, my ass!
My epiphany matured: It's not "you are what you eat"; it's "you are what you keep."
Into the fire
I didn't do anything wrong, I thought as I hopped over old Mr. Hunt's fence and ran down Pine Street. I could hear Officer Stone's heavy breathing. I didn't turn around to see how close he was.
"Stop!" I heard as his partner, Officer Pitt, landed with a thud on the sidewalk.
I kept my head down and my feet flying toward Main Street.
If I was so innocent, why was I running, you ask?
Easy: I live in one of those places where you're guilty until proven innocent. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, but no one was ever going to believe me. I know the deal. So, I ran.
As soon as I turned onto Main, I ran into the first alley on the left. A door was ajar so I slipped in. Pitt and Stone thundered by and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Welcome, my child."
The voice came from behind me. I turned slowly and froze. At the same time the door behind me clicked shut and locked. The room before me was dark, lit only by candles on the wall. And a fire pit in the middle of room above which was...I rubbed my eyes, sure I could not be seeing what I thought. Above the fire there was something...someone, turning like a pig on a spit. As my eyes adjusted, I saw the face and screamed.
It was me.
"We've been expecting you," the voice continued from next to me.
I turned and white eyes glowed beside me.
"Uh, I th- think I made a wrong turn," I stuttered, trying to surreptitiously twist the knob behind me.
"No, it was fate," the voice said as a clawed hand dug into my shoulder. "You've been expected."
"No, really, I have to go," I said, desperately trying to open the locked door."
"We insist you stay," glowing eyes said.
"We?" I whispered.
"Mmmhmmmm," the voice murmured as dozens of glowing eyes blinked around me.
Cold Calling: Truth in Advertising
"Hello. Is this Geraldo?"
"No, it's Gerard. Who's calling?"
"Hello, Gerald. Don't let the accent fool you; my name is, um, Eddie. I'm calling because you've been pre-approved for a low promotional interesting credit card."
"What's the interest, Eddie?
"Huh? Who?"
"Eddie--you!"
Thank you for that, Jerry. Yes. I'm Eddie. The interested rate is very exciting, because it's actually a minus interest rate. The more you charge, the less you have to pay. Sound of interest to you?"
"Sounds too good to be true."
"And too true, George. May I have your Social Security number?"
"Why do you need that?"
"Just a routine credit check."
"Why does my credit need to be checked if I'm going to get paid with minus interest for charging things?"
"Oh, you, know, all routine."
[CLICK]
"Hello, is this Mary?"
"Actually, my name is Mary-Anne."
"Thank you for that information, Marian. My name is, um, Freddy. Could I interest you in a lifetime supply for free gasoline?"
"I drive an EV, Freddy."
"Who? Oh, yes, I am Eddie."
"I thought it was Freddy."
"Yes--Freddy. Well then, would you be interesting in a lifetime supply of electricity? Please, just give me your Social Security number and I'll see if your number quantifies."
[CLICK]
"Hello, Dick."
"It's Richard."
"OK, Rick. My name is, um, well, it's Dick, too! How ya like that?"
"Dick, you called me. Tell me what you're calling for."
"Well, Ricky, I've been directed to notify you of an incredible offer you qualify for."
"I'm listening."
"I'm the conservative for a considerable amount of money, but I need someone to accept it into their bank account. We've got to move it for tax reasons."
"How much?"
"$30 million."
"Tell me more."
"Just give me your bank's routing and account numbers and your Social Security number and I can transfer the money right now."
"Right now?"
"Yes, while you're on the phone with me."
"OK, ready?"
The information was given.
"Please hold."
---
"Mr. Burubu!" Asmir shouted, "Mr. Dick's given me all the information we need!"
"That's great, Asmir!"
"OK, so what do I do now?"
"Make the transfer. That's what we promised."
"If only more people would believe me."
My Sister
I noticed the swell or her stomach, so gently sloping before I even took in the features on her face. Her round belly was wrapped in a pretty floral top that mom had worn years ago when she was pregnant. My sister had told me she was pregnant a few months ago. I saw her post photos of the baby bump on all her social medias with her typical artistic flair. She and her husband live across the country in sunny California. I don’t know why they’d waste a week of California spring to spend that time in New England. We can boast of frost and rain until mid-May some years. Longer if you’re one of the brave souls who lives up in Maine.
Mom reached her first, enveloping her in an overly cautious embrace. Mom has had five children, yet she treats my sister as if childbearing is the most dangerous condition ever. I don’t mean to insult pregnant women, really, I don’t. I’ve never been pregnant, and I’m not sure I ever will. But our mom acts like even a too-firm hug could injure her daughter or the granddaughter within her womb. She fell down the stairs with her second child and was in a car accident with me, the baby of the family. Every single one of us was fine. I think women are more resilient than we’re given credit for, that’s all.
We exchanged hugs and hellos and retired to the living rooms when their suitcases were brought in. My dad immediately made sure my sister could put her feet up and had a glass of water in her hand. I guess she should be pampered. She’s growing a human being after all. She’s seven months pregnant. Every time she glances at her belly or brushes a hand against it, she smiles. Maybe they’re being cautious because they’ve had trouble keeping babies. Two confirmed miscarriages and a few more that my sister claims were certainly pregnancies but were gone too early to test.
Her husband sat proudly beside her. He doesn’t talk much at first, you really have to let him get comfortable before he joins in the conversation. I wasn’t sure he was going to say anything at all. His eyes hadn’t left his wife and the baby hidden inside of her.
I love my sister, I do. But nobody was even half this excited when two of our brothers announced they were having kids with their spouses the last few years. My sister was always the golden child, though, so maybe we brought this on ourselves, anyway. Growing up she was the first one to answer when mom or dad called. She had all As and did her chores without being asked. She competed at the state level in high school in cross country and won scholarships for athletics, her artwork, and her academics. If she were my kid, I’d have a hard time not favoring her, too. But I could tell, even if nobody else could, that my brothers were hurt about how excited mom and dad were for her baby rather than theirs.
I love my sister a lot. She’s never once done anything to make me dislike her even a little; She had a big heart and was a great big sister growing up. She taught me how to put on makeup, style my hair, and even shave my legs. Maybe I do resent her a little. It’s just because I know mom taught her all of those things. I just wish that rather than my wonderful sister teaching me, it would have been mom. I wish mom had taken a moment and spent it with just me, teaching me what it means to be a woman. I don’t even know how to complain about it without sounding whiny or ungrateful.
She went into preterm labor near the end of her visit. And now I feel like a real jerk for being jealous of her the whole time.
The Garden Gnome Gambit
It was a Tuesday when I found myself inadvertently embroiled in a sequence of events that would later form the cornerstone of my memoirs - assuming, of course, that anyone would be absurd enough to publish them. The day began innocuously enough; I was merely an average person with a penchant for minor acts of rebellion and an unrivaled talent for making poor life decisions.
The incident that transformed my ordinary existence into a spectacle worthy of public exhibition commenced with a seemingly harmless endeavor: I aimed to set a record for the most garden gnomes repositioned in a single night. It was an act motivated not by malice but by a thirst for adventure and perhaps a subtle disdain for the gaudy ceramic figures that had colonized the neighborhood lawns.
Armed with nothing more than a flashlight, a misguided sense of purpose, and sneakers that had seen better days, I embarked on my nocturnal mission. Success was within my grasp until the silence of the night was shattered by the unmistakable sound of a siren. It appeared that in my enthusiasm for gnome relocation, I had inadvertently trespassed on the property of a retired police officer who fancied himself a vigilante of suburban peace.
Faced with the immediate threat of apprehension for a crime as ignoble as gnome displacement, I did what any self-respecting fugitive of garden decor crimes would do: I ran. The chase was less a testament to my athleticism and more an ad hoc obstacle course involving shrubbery, garden hoses, and the occasional startled cat.
My breaths were heavy, my heart pounded against my chest like a drum solo from a rock concert, and sweat coated my brow like a glaze on a holiday ham. The officers, undoubtedly bemused yet unyielding, were hot on my heels, their determination fueled by the prospect of apprehending a gnome bandit.
In a stroke of luck that seemed almost scripted by the fates, an open door appeared on the sidewalk, as if the universe itself had conspired to afford me a sliver of hope. With the police mere whispers behind me, I darted through the doorway, tumbling into salvation’s embrace. The heavy door swung shut with a thud that echoed my racing heart.
I remained still, crouched beneath the window, daring not to breathe as the sound of footsteps and radio chatter passed by, growing fainter with each passing moment. The relief that washed over me was a tidal wave of euphoria; I had escaped the clutches of the law with nothing more than my wits and an uncanny ability to spot an open door.
As my breathing steadied and the adrenaline that had fueled my frenetic escape ebbed away, I let myself bask in the fleeting illusion of triumph. Triumph, however, as I was soon to discover, is often a prelude to tribulation. Slowly, with the cautious curiosity of a cat nearing a suspiciously unattended bowl of cream, I rose from my sanctuary under the window, my heart still performing an erratic symphony within my chest.
I turned, expecting to face a room as ordinary as any other, perhaps cluttered with the mundane artifacts of domestic life. Instead, I found myself in a space that defied all conventional expectations, a room that would have made Salvador Dali raise his eyebrows in both confusion and admiration.
The walls were adorned with paintings that seemed to pulse and writhe in their frames, depicting scenes that oscillated between the fantastical and the macabre. Books were strewn about, their pages filled with indecipherable script that shimmered under the flickering light of a chandelier festooned with what appeared to be crystals, but upon closer inspection, were actually intricately carved bones.
In the center of the room stood a table, upon which was arrayed a curious collection of objects: a compass that spun in endless circles, a clock with thirteen hours, and a crystal ball that clouded and cleared intermittently, revealing fleeting glimpses of unknown places. The air was thick with the scent of incense and something else, something cloyingly sweet yet unmistakably metallic - the smell of blood.
But it was not the bizarre furnishings or the unsettling artwork that sent a shiver down my spine; it was the occupants of the room. Gathered around the table were figures cloaked in shadows, their features obscured, save for the glint of their eyes in the dim light. Each pair of eyes fixed on me with an intensity that rooted me to the spot, a rabbit caught in the gaze of serpents.
The silence was oppressive, a tangible force that seemed to squeeze the very air from my lungs. A voice, smooth as silk and cold as ice, broke the stillness. “Welcome,” it said, each syllable weaving through the shadows like a chill wind. “We’ve been expecting you.”
My mouth felt as dry as a desert, my tongue a useless slab of meat in my mouth. Questions pounded against the forefront of my mind with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Who were these people? What was this place? And, perhaps most pressingly, how had they been expecting me?
Before I had the chance to voice any of these questions, the figure who had spoken stepped forward, emerging from the shadows into the wavering light. The sight that greeted me was so startling, so absurdly out of place with the gravity of the situation, that I nearly laughed.
The figure was garbed in a robe that seemed stitched together from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within the fabric with a light that seemed both impossible and mesmerizing. But it was the face that captured my attention: it was covered by a mask that was nothing less than a giant rubber duck.
“Now,” the figure said, the duck’s beak moving comically with each word, “let’s discuss why you’re here.”
The rational part of my brain, the part that had been meticulously cultivated through years of dull college lectures and an unshakably pragmatic upbringing, screamed that none of this could possibly be happening. The world did not operate on the principles of surrealism and absurdity painted before my very eyes. Yet here I was, conversing with an entity that could only have leaped from the fevered dream of a deranged novelist, its countenance obscured by a façade that sparked an odd juxtaposition of fear and amusement within me.
“Discuss?” I echoed, my voice laced with incredulity, betraying the whirlwind of emotions coursing through me. “I don’t even know how I ended up here, let alone why.”
The figures around the table shifted, a symphony of whispers filling the space between us, their words indecipherable, yet laden with expectation. The duck-masked figure raised a hand, and silence returned as swiftly as it had been broken.
“You are here because fate has woven you into the tapestry of events far greater than the sum of your misdemeanors with garden ornaments,” the figure intoned, the absurdity of the statement doing nothing to diminish its gravity. “Though, admittedly, your choice of pastime is… unconventional.”
A snort escaped me despite the gravity of the situation. Unconventional indeed. Never had I imagined my nocturnal activities would lead me down a rabbit hole that made Wonderland seem like a guided tour of a suburban shopping mall.
“You stand at a crossroads,” the duck continued, its tone somber. “One path leads to redemption, the other to ruination. The choice is yours, but choose wisely. The consequences will ripple through the eons.”
I blinked. Redemption? Ruination? Eons? The words painted a picture so vastly different from my expectations of post-escape hiding that I couldn’t help but feel as if I had stumbled into someone else’s story, a protagonist by accident rather than design.
“And how exactly am I supposed to make this choice?” I asked, skepticism threading my words. “I mean, no offense, but this is all coming on a bit strong. Last I checked, I was just avoiding a trespassing charge, not meddling in the affairs of cosmic importance.”
Laughter, light and lilting, filled the room, emanating from the shrouded figures. It was not mocking but seemed imbued with genuine amusement.
“The bravery you displayed tonight, the willingness to defy the odds, it was merely a precursor,” the figure clarified, its tone warmer now, more inviting. “Your true test lies within this room. Choose an object from the table. It will determine your path.”
I studied the table, the bizarre items now taking on a new light of significance. The compass spun with wild abandon, the clock ticked irregularly, and the crystal ball… I stepped closer, drawn to its mysterious depths. Without fully understanding why, I reached out, my fingers brushing against the cool surface.
The room held its breath.
Then, without warning, reality bent. The walls, the figures, the entire room stretched and twisted, colors bleeding into one another as time and space contorted. I was falling, plummeting through a vortex that defied all laws of physics, the last thing I saw before darkness took me was the duck-masked figure, its eyes gleaming with a light that spoke of untold secrets and imminent adventure.
When consciousness returned, it tiptoed back, hesitant, as if unsure it was returning to the right person. My eyes fluttered open, greeted by a canopy of stars strewn across a sky so vast, so infinitely deep, that I felt I could drown in it. I lay on my back, the ground beneath me neither hard nor soft, but oddly insubstantial, as if I were resting on the concept of ground rather than the thing itself.
Sitting up, I found the world around me had rearranged its features once more, now resembling neither the peculiar room nor the familiar streets I had known. Instead, I was in a place that defied straightforward description. It was as if the universe had taken a handful of landscapes from a dozen different planets and woven them together into a tapestry of bewildering diversity. Mountains that shimmered with an iridescent sheen towered next to forests where the leaves sang in the wind, a melody both haunting and beautiful.
In the distance, a river flowed, its waters a swirling miasma of colors that no earthly palette could contain. The air was thick with a fragrance that was simultaneously new and ancient, filled with notes of jasmine, ozone, and something indefinably otherworldly.
As I stood, a sense of vertigo momentarily overtook me, not from a fear of falling, but from the sudden realization that I had profoundly underestimated the gravity of my situation. The words of the duck-masked figure echoed in my mind: a choice between redemption and ruination, with consequences rippling through eons.
I took a tentative step forward, half expecting the ground to give way beneath me. Instead, it held firm, the surreal landscape beckoning me to explore. As I walked, the reality of my circumstance began to settle in; I was no mere fugitive of a mundane justice system. I had become an unwitting participant in a trial that spanned the cosmos, my fate entwined with forces beyond my comprehension.
The river drew me nearer, its waters calling to me with a voice that was felt rather than heard. As I approached, an object caught my eye, half-submerged in the kaleidoscopic flow. It was a mirror, its frame adorned with intricate carvings that seemed to shift and change under my gaze.
Tentatively, I reached out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of the frame before grasping it firmly. Drawing the mirror from the river, I held it before me, taking in my reflection. But what stared back was not my face, or rather, not just my face. It was a visage that morphed and flowed, reflecting myriad possibilities of who I was, who I could be, and who I might yet become.
Each reflection was me, yet not me—different paths I could take, lives I could live. Each choice I had ever made, or might yet make, played out in an infinite dance of consequences, a reminder of the weight of choice and the power of action.
It was then that realization dawned upon me, as bright and blinding as the stars overhead. This was not a trial of cosmic jesters or a test by extraterrestrial beings. It was a journey of self-discovery, a trial by fire designed to reveal the essence of my being, to challenge me to confront my fears, my hopes, my very identity.
With a deep breath, I looked once more into the mirror, my gaze steady. The reflections slowed, coalescing into a single image, a vision of myself not as I was but as I could be. A version of me unbound by past regrets or future anxieties, free to forge my destiny with the raw materials of choice and will.
Armed with this newfound understanding, I turned from the river, the mirror in hand, and stepped forward into the unknown land that sprawled before me. For the first time, I felt a sense of purpose, a conviction that, regardless of the path I chose, the journey itself was the destination.
And though I could not have known it then, my adventures had only just begun. For in the realms of the infinite, every ending is but a new beginning, every choice a doorway to endless possibilities.
Billy Goats Gruff and Gruffer
Once upon a time, there was a lush pasture. The only way to get to it was via a stone arch bridge over a swift stream.
The owner of the pasture was fixated on preventing the goats next door from getting across because they ate everything he grew. So he found a homeless troll and offered him the job.
"You do eat goats, right?" he asked the troll. "Even the gruff ones?"
"Umph," replied the troll, which the pasture owner took for a yes.
Soon, his pastures became lush again, verdant and bountiful with waves of variegated plant blooms. He'd open his cottage windows to inhale their fragrant bouquet every morning.
One such morning he flared his nostrils and, to his horror, what wafted into them was the malodorous fetidness of goatshit. Furious, he made haste to the bridge where his troll was, noting swaths of bald pasture on the way.
"What the hell, troll!" he shouted.
"Umph!" the troll snorted.
"Let's talk about this, shall we?" he asked the troll icily.
"Umph!"
"Did a billy goat--gruff, that is--try to cross this bridge?"
"Umph!"
"And did she convince you not to eat her because he said the next goat would be much tastier?"
"Umph!"
"And gruffer?"
"Umph!"
"And so you let her pass, is that right?"
"Umph!"
"And then that next goat came along and said the same goddamn thing? That you should wait for the next goat because she would be even tastier and gruffer?"
"Umph!"
"So you let her pass, too, is that right?"
"Umph!"
"And that third gruffiest and tastiest goat of them all, did you eat even her?" The troll fell silent. "You didn't eat a single goat, did you!" he shouted.
"Umph!"
"So what happened? What'd you do to 'em? Did you have your way with those goats?"
"Well," the troll suddenly articulated eloquently, "let me ruminate on that a moment."
The pasture owner was stunned. "Are you trying to get my goat, troll?"
"Don't worry. Already did. Got 'em all--good. Know what I mean?"
"Only if you're so horny you had the ugly one, too. You know what they say about the ugly ones."
"Right answer. You can pass, asshole."